


On Deadline

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [10]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fever, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, MJ gets sick, Peter has a boyfriend-sense, Sickfic, Stress, Whump, no sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:10:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: On deadline, MJ works a little too hard and comes down with a fever. Stubborn as she is, she won't let Peter help... but there might be a reason for that.Or, more simply, MJ gets sick, and Peter notices.Can be set in most Spidey universes, but I based it off the events of the video game, before the DLC. :) (So, minor spoilers if you haven't finished that?)





	On Deadline

MJ’s cheeks were tinged pink, and something told Peter it wasn’t a blush.

Well, lots of things told Peter that. Like the fact that his torso was mottled with bruises from his fight with Shocker, so even though he was only wearing sweatpants, MJ wouldn’t be admiring him today.

Or the fact that her “innovative criminals” piece was on deadline, fast encroaching, so MJ’s every waking minute of the last two days had been spent crouched over her laptop, fingers flying over the keys.

But especially the fact that, those things notwithstanding, Peter had _seen_ MJ blush. Seen it when he picked her up for prom, dressed in a fitting tux Aunt May chose, sporting a corsage even though they were “just friends.” Seen it that fateful night in college, when she dragged him to a frat party for “research” and they both wound up drunk and laughing in a back alley of the university, friendzone effectively forgotten. Seen it when she’d been awarded Best Upcoming Reporter by the Daily Bugle at their holiday party, flushed with pride as she accepted the bronze statue.

He’d seen MJ blush. And this wasn’t it.

“Peter, you seen my—oh, _here_ , thank god,” MJ said, ducking beneath the couch to fish a flash drive from its depths. He’d never known another person to own more flash drives. Or lose more flash drives. He found one in his toothbrush container, once.

She picked herself off the floor, and the morning light filtering through the modest apartment’s blinds hit her cheeks again. _Pink_. Why were they pink?

“Hey, MJ—”

She wasn’t listening. “Robertson wants at least five sources, and it’s due on Wednesday. Two days! How does he expect me to…” she broke off, muttering to herself as she shoved her laptop into her knapsack, yanked the charging cord from the wall. Her eyes flicked to the clock. “I’m gonna have to take the train at this rate—Pete, it’s not raining, is it?”

He glanced past her, out the windows. “Ah, no, but—”

“Good. Maybe I can run it instead. I swear that train is always late.” She shouldered her bag, a whirlwind of activity as she grabbed a bagel from the kitchen.

Usually he stayed out of her way on deadline weeks. Usually, if he got _in_ her way, she mowed him over.

But today he planted himself in front of her, and she slammed right into him.

She recoiled a few steps, bagel hanging out of her mouth. When he didn’t move, just squinted at her in concern, she chomped on a bite and pulled the rest of the bagel from her mouth. “Uh, Pete? You good?”

“Are you feeling okay?” He felt stupid even asking, since her behavior was nothing out of the ordinary. And usually he was just as busy, cooking breakfast under the static of the police scanner, spider suit inches away “just in case.”

Their mornings weren’t quiet.

Their days rarely were either.

But today, a tingling in the back of Peter’s mind told him to slow down, pay attention. Not his spider-sense; that only screamed when he was in danger. But his… well, his _boyfriend_ -sense. Yeah. He definitely had one of those.

He wanted to, anyway.

And so he held her gaze, even as she smirked and pecked his lips and said, “Feeling fine. Why?”

He tasted the bagel on her lips, and nearly bent down for another kiss. Her coy smile was _everything_ , and now she was watching him with fond amusement, like he was adorable for worrying.

She didn’t realize that, although he’d gotten better at hiding it, all he _did_ was worry about her.

He pressed a hand to her forehead, abruptly. She stilled under his touch, eyebrows shooting into her hair. Maybe he was imagining it, but she felt warm. Warmer than she should be. He felt her cheeks next, then tilted her chin upwards to squint at the pink on her face.

She snorted. “Oh, god, look at you. Peter, I’m _fine_.” She pushed his hands away, munching on another bite of the bagel. Her next words were mushed. “Stop being a worrywart.”

“You’re running a lot,” he said, hesitantly.

Her eyes took a sharper focus. “And?”

This was familiar territory, and not in a good way. Him, worrying over her. Her, lashing back, claiming he didn’t see her as “capable.” God, he didn’t want this argument again. So against her daring gaze, he rubbed his face and said, “I just… I want you to take care of yourself.”

“Uh huh. And how about you, huh?” She poked his side, the bruises yellowing there. Shocker had gotten a few lucky hits, but hits from Shocker was like… like being slammed with an electrified dump truck. Even two days later, even with his healing factors, it still smarted.

He flinched, swallowing a hiss of pain, and MJ squeezed his arm. “You worry about yourself first, Spidey.” Her eyes drifted to the clock, and she inhaled sharply. “Shit, late, _late_. I gotta go!” Without another word, still carrying that bagel in her free hand, MJ rushed for the door.

Peter watched it close behind her, boyfriend-senses tingling.

Not that it meant much.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t climb through the living room window until close to 2am, bone-weary and swallowing a yawn. MJ left the stove light on, soft and steady as he slid the window closed, lowered the blinds against the glare of the city. Otherwise, the apartment was dark, silent, which was a welcoming change to the last few nights, when MJ greeted him with a silent wave, still typing on her laptop.

 _Maybe_ , he thought, optimistically, _she’s finally learned the value of sleep_.

_Ha. Yeah, right._

Sarcasm dripped even in his mind, and he stepped into the kitchen to flick off the stove light. His eyes fell on the fridge, even as he unzipped the discreet zipper in the front of his spider-suit, rolling the skintight sleeves down his arms.

He’d stripped to his Iron Man boxers and was halfway through their leftover pizza when a key jangled against the lock, and the front door opened.

He froze, a deer in the headlights, as MJ stepped inside. For a moment, she didn’t see him, swathed in the darkness as he was. She drew a shaky breath, pressed a hand against her forehead, and dropped her knapsack onto the kitchen counter.

Then her eyes landed on him, standing beside the open fridge, and she sucked in a breath.

“Pete? What the hell are you doing slinking around in the dark? And… naked?” Her eyes roamed his body, and a familiar smile quirked her lips. “Not tonight, tiger. I’m beat.”

Beat? No kidding; she’d had the beginnings of a fever this morning, and now it was already _tomorrow_ morning. Had she been working this whole time? Had she slept or ate or—or took care of herself at _all_?

His concern flared, and he swallowed the piece of pizza, scrubbing the cold grease against his boxers. “I wasn’t trying to—I thought you were sleeping. Which you clearly aren’t.” His tone was sharper than intended.

MJ snorted, locking the front door. Deep bags rimmed her eyes, and she shivered—against the chill of the hallway? Or was she feverish? Peter moved to feel her forehead again, but she swatted his hand away.

“Don’t. We’re on deadline. I’m just tired.”

Peter’s snark couldn’t be contained. “’I’m just tired.’ Right. Where have I heard that before?”

MJ walked to the couch, sinking onto its plush cushions. She massaged her eyes with her palms. “Let me think… oh, right. You say that every time you push yourself too hard. Like the fight with Shocker?” She raised her hands in mock air-quotes. “It’s fine, MJ. No bleeding. ‘I’m just tired.’ And then you collapsed on our living room floor.”

Peter stiffened. Even though he’d brought it up, he didn’t want to _think_ about similarities between that instance and this one. About MJ… so sick or injured she collapsed while he watched. He knew that was selfish, but—he wasn’t as strong as her. He’d lost too many people to see the last person he loved suffer.

He abandoned the rest of the pizza, leaving his spider-suit on the kitchen floor. Without clothes, the apartment air was brisk, but manageable.

MJ’s eyes had drifted shut.

He seized the opportunity to feel her forehead. Okay, it was _definitely_ warm now. Maybe even hot. He scowled. “MJ, you’re running a fever. You need to slow down.”

And of course, she threw it back in his face. Her eyes were open now, laser-focused. Pinning him, freezing him. “And how about you, Spidey? How long were you patrolling today? Twelve hours? Sixteen?”

He pressed his lips into a firm line. They’d done this dance before, and he knew where it wound up. An explosive fight. A long-term breakup. Constant anxiety for months, until she deigned to speak to him again.

He couldn’t live without MJ… not anymore. Not after May.

MJ was all he had left in the world.

So he didn’t engage with her curt words. Instead, he scooped her off the couch in one swift movement, strolling for their bedroom. She gasped, struggled against him, but she might as well have been struggling against steel bars.

“Peter! Put me down,” she snapped.

He forced his voice to be soft, alluring. Normally, he stumbled over this kind of thing, the flirting and _romance_ of it all, but tonight his acting was on point. “Aren’t you tired?” He pressed a kiss to her hair. Her forehead burned underneath his lips, but he studiously didn’t let the resulting panic into his tone. “’Cause I am. How about we _both_ go to bed?”

He hadn’t singled her out, so she saw no reason to fight back. It was well past 2am. A perfectly acceptable bedtime for both humans and spider people. But her eye still drifted to the kitchen. To her knapsack.

“—I have an article to write—”

“Your deadline’s Wednesday. And… wait, this just in. Your laptop _won’t_ self-implode overnight. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

She shoved his shoulder. “Smartass.”

“But like, a cute one, right?”

MJ wriggled out of his grasp when he got near the bed, falling onto the bouncy mattress with a _whump_. Her eyes roamed over his distinct lack of clothing, settling on his boxers. A sly smile curled her lips. “The cutest. Maybe I spoke too soon, before.”

Now he was the one blushing.

Except tonight wasn’t the night for that. Peter struck a pose and said, “Oh, yes, I’m always at my best after patrolling all day. The grit of sweat on my skin and the lovely smell of armpits really enhance the—”

“Okay, I get it,” MJ laughed, waving him off. “Go shower.”

“And you’ll go to bed?”

She considered him for a moment, then said, “I’ll think about it.”

Peter swallowed a sigh, but dutifully staggered into the bathroom, trying to ignore the pressing weight on his heart. MJ was _fine_ , for god’s sake. She was sitting just ten feet from him, awake and alert and perfectly fine. Maybe a little sleep-deprived, but that would be engraved on her tombstone. _Here lies Mary Jane Watson. Perpetually sleep deprived._

And he’d be right next to her: _Here lies Peter Parker. Worrywart._

He was overreacting. Peter spun the knob on the shower, but couldn’t manage to shove his girlfriend from his mind.  

When he emerged fifteen minutes later, their bedroom light was on. MJ was sitting where he’d left her, blinking heavily, shoulders slumped, mumbling to herself as she typed on her laptop.

Her cheeks were still pink.

 

* * *

 

MJ took all the blankets within a few hours.

This wasn’t atypical; she was a classic cover hog. But the temperature was dropping at night, and Peter hadn’t done great with cold since the spider bite. So when she tugged the covers over to her side, he groaned awake and snuggled closer to her, trying to share while still keeping her warm.

Except he found her shivering. Short bouts, just a shudder here and there, but enough to chase the fog of sleep from Peter’s mind. He pushed onto his right forearm, leaning over her tiny frame.

She was asleep, finally. He had no clue when she’d turned the lights off, closed the laptop, laid beside him. Patrolling always wiped him out, so even though he’d tried to stay awake and watch her, it… didn’t really work.

Of course, now it was the furthest thing from his mind. He watched her for several minutes, her intermittent shudders rippling across the mattress. On quiet moments like this, he could hear her heartbeat, which counted several beats faster than usual. Maybe she was having a panicked dream.

Or maybe she was really, truly sick.

Carefully, cautiously, he reached over her shoulder, resting his hand against her forehead. She was bundled so deeply in the comforter that her face was all he could see, but it was enough. Heat radiated off her, so much worse than a few hours ago.

God, why hadn’t he made her take something to lower that fever before it started? _Stupid, Parker, stupid._

Light was beginning to peek through the blinds. Soon, their alarm would ring, and she’d be up and bustling around like a hurricane, fever or no. Soon, she’d be outside in the cold, battling illness and pushy New Yorkers to start another sixteen hour shift at the Bugle.

Soon, he wouldn’t be able to help her, and she sure as hell wouldn’t let him.

Dread crept through him at the thought. Swallowing, he eased out of bed, tip-toeing to the alarm clock perched on her nightstand. He couldn’t stop the day from starting, but—he might be able to delay MJ’s knowledge of it. With her shivering under the comforter, breathing shallow from the fever, Peter flicked off the alarm.

There.

She was going to kill him for this.

And yet, pride swept through him. She always took care of him. “Nurse MJ” had become a gruesome, running joke in their apartment. And she was so capable, so confident, that he never had the chance to return the favor.

 _My time has come_ , he thought, puffing out his chest.

And then his cell phone rang.

MJ jerked, bolting upright in a heartbeat. “Pete—the phone—” Her gaze was bleary, and she blinked hard, pressing a hand to her forehead. His cell continued to ring, and Peter catapulted himself around the bed to grab it, silence it.

Too late. Maybe it was his imagination, or the dim light of the bedroom, but her face looked pale. Her voice was raspy with sleep, but she still cocked an eyebrow and ran her fingers through her red hair. “Who was it?”

He checked the phone, saw the missed call from Yuri.

Oh. Shoot.

“Ah, no one,” he said, mentally cursing himself. All this time, he’d been thinking of delaying _her_ work. He never thought about what’d happen when _he_ got called out.

MJ shivered, drawing the comforter up to her chin. “Liar. That’s your _important phone call_ look.”

“I don’t have an _important phone call_ look,” he replied, indignant.

She snorted. “’S all over your face. Call her back, Pete.” With a stifled yawn, she shed the comforter— _no, no, no_ —and swung out of bed. Her eyes traced to the alarm clock, and she cursed. “Shit. I planned to get up early today—”

Get up early? Was she insane? They’d only had about three hours of sleep—her, maybe less! Peter dropped his phone on the bed, pushing to his feet. “Wait. You have a fever. You’re shivering. Please, get back in bed.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead again, but didn’t bother denying it. Her tank top’s strap slipped off her shoulder, and she hiked it back up. “It’s fine. Just a cold.”

“MJ.”

She rolled her eyes now, clearly annoyed. Had those bags been there last night? “Peter.” Crap, the full name. “When we decided to give this another shot, what did you say to me?”

“That we’re partners,” he replied, steadily.

Petulantly.

She blew a kiss at him. Her cheeks were flushed red, whether she realized it or not.  “Partners. So you go do your spider thing, and I’ll do my reporter thing, and we’ll meet back here for dinner, okay?”

 _No_ , he wanted to say.

 _Stay in bed_ , he wanted to scream.

 _Take care of yourself_ , he wanted to beg.

But a partnership was built on trust. And just as she trusted him to make it home every night, he had to trust that she’d take time for herself. So he hung his head, mumbled an apology, and watched her stumble into the bathroom.

His cell phone rang again.

“Go on, Pete. New York needs you,” MJ called through the open bathroom door.

He drew a frustrated, aching breath and dashed into the kitchen for his suit.

 

* * *

 

 

Some lunatic was planting seed bombs around the city.

That’s right. _Seed_ bombs. As in, when they blew, they launched thousands of plant seeds into the air. Which sounded all well and good, especially in a concrete jungle, but the designer didn’t give two craps about the bystanders.

To be fair, most bombmakers didn’t.

When these exploded, anyone within range was buffeted with seeds of all sizes: bullet-like sunflower seeds all the way to baseball-sized pong pong seeds (yeah, he had to look that one up too). Hundreds of people had been injured during the early morning commute when three bombs exploded at once. A few were hospitalized, facing brain damage and deep wounds.

 After that, it was a mad scramble to find the others before this so-called TreeMaker could wrack up a casualty list.

It wasn’t until that afternoon, just as Peter webbed the villain himself to one of his ticking bombs, watching with rapt attention as the TreeMaker frantically disarmed it himself, that Peter even had time to think about MJ.

And that thought came in the form of a phone call from her cell.

“Hey, MJ, I’m a little busy—”

“Is this Peter Parker?” a strange woman asked.

Peter was perched on a lamppost, watching police move on the TreeMaker, watching Yuri wave him down, but he couldn’t seem to move. Fear raced through him. His fingers tightened around the metal light, denting it.

“Y-Yeah? Who is this? Where’s MJ?”

The woman hesitated. “Ah, this is Angie, from the Daily Bugle. MJ… well, she fainted. HR has you listed as her emergency contact?”

Peter’s mouth went dry. Far below him, Yuri was plucking out her radio, waving to get his attention. He saw her. He just—he couldn’t think about this second-rate villain right now. “She _fainted_?” His voice was breathy, panicked. “Is—Is she okay? Oh, god, I knew she shouldn’t have gone to work today. I knew it!” He was babbling, but the thought of MJ collapsing at work, of getting this phone call… he had no idea it’d be this serious.

He never should have left this morning. This was all his fault.

Angie sounded solemn. “She’s running a high fever. Are you available to take her home?”

Home? Sounded like she needed a hospital. Peter was already planning the route—what was the nearest medical center to the Bugle…?—as he replied, “Y-Yeah, of course. Of course. I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks, Mr. Parker. I’m watching her in the corner office on the eight floor.”

“Got it,” he choked, and hung up.

He was about to turn away, sling to the nearest building and race to the Bugle, when another call interrupted him. He answered on instinct, and Yuri’s curt voice filled his mask. “Okay, Spider-Man. Did you see how he disarmed that bomb?”

“Y-Yeah,” he said, shaking himself out of it. Cops were already cutting the TreeMaker free of his webbing, the inert bomb stoic behind them. The TreeMaker was purple-faced, screaming about global warming and the cops’ impact on it. It was all white noise to Peter, though. “Yeah, I saw.”

“Good. I’m going to need you to brief my men, and then we’ll split up for the remaining bombs. Officers are standing by at each, but I don’t want anyone getting killed today. We’ve got to move fast.”

Bombs. Casualties. Peter’s head swam. This was important, but—but MJ was important too. He wasn’t a cop. This wasn’t his job.

Would MJ even accept his help if he showed?

It didn’t matter. She was all he had in the world, and she’d _fainted_ a few minutes ago. TreeMaker was off the streets, and the first three bombs hadn’t killed anyone. The NYPD didn’t really need him. Gut wrenching with guilt, he dropped to the ground beside Yuri.

“Yuri? I—I can’t stay,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something just came up.”

Her steady gaze pierced him. “Something more important than bombs in New York?”

He flinched, stomach churning. The bruises from Shocker were nearly painless now, but somehow they ached in that moment, a vivid reminder of the damage one person could do to this city. A vivid reminder of why Peter had left their apartment, left MJ, this morning.

And then she fainted at work.

She _fainted_ at work.

He set his jaw. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, the captain just pinned him with that stare, that _I can see right through you_ stare. It was unnerving. But then she nodded curtly. “Okay. Thanks for your help up to this point. Can you brief my men before you go?”

“Just like that?” he blurted. A joke passed through his mind— _wow, Yuri, and here I thought I was your one and only_ —but he really wasn’t in the mood anymore.

Yuri arched an eyebrow. “Yes. Just like that. You’re not on our payroll, Spider-Man. And I know you wouldn’t leave if it weren’t important.”

He sagged into himself. “Thanks, Yuri.”

“The briefing, first?” she gestured towards four bomb squad guys, decked in full gear.

He delivered it, fast and clear. And once they nodded understanding, radioing their counterparts in the different areas of the city, he raced away, slinging towards the Bugle with shaking hands and a racing mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Angie was one of the copyeditors, it turned out.

She was a plump woman who dressed in violet undertones and wore bright red lipstick. The corner office wasn’t hers, but the executive it belonged to was on vacation and it was one of the few areas in the building with a couch.

Not that MJ was using it, of course. She still had her laptop, somehow, and despite the pallor of her skin, the violent shudders wracking her body, she typed with fervor at the executive’s desk.

She belonged there, corner office, big wooden desk. One day, she’d have that.

But today wasn’t it.

“MJ,” Peter snapped. It came off harsh enough that she jerked her head up, and he sucked in a breath at the dark rings under her eyes, the paleness of her lips.

At the couch, Angie clucked. “I tried to get her to take a break, but then Robertson tracked her down and—”

“Enough said,” Peter muttered. 

“Article’s due tomorrow, Angie,” MJ said. “Nothing I can do.”

“Hmm. Doing nothing. There’s an idea,” Peter replied, forcing a smile he definitely didn’t feel. “Come on, MJ. Close the laptop. We’re going home.”

At the door, Angie made an approving sound in the back of her throat.

MJ, however, narrowed her eyes. “I told you not to call him, Ang.”

“And I told you it’s company policy, honey. Why else would HR require an emergency contact when you filled out that new hire paperwork?” Angie rolled her eyes and stepped from the office, patting Peter’s shoulder on the way out. “Good luck with her.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, distantly, as Angie strolled down the hallway, back to whatever work she’d neglected for the last hour. Peter moved further into the office, brows knitted together. “You didn’t want her to call me? You _fainted_ , MJ.”

MJ pressed her lips together, closing her laptop with a huff. “Is that what she told you?”

“Isn’t that what happened?” His voice was challenging, now.

She winced at his tone. Or maybe his volume. Maybe both. “I got lightheaded for a minute. Stood up too fast and fell over.” Her voice softened. “That’s all, Pete.”

Anger and sadness warred for dominance. That sure sounded like fainting to Peter, and if MJ didn’t want him called after that, it meant she didn’t trust him to help matters. Like she thought he’d just… barge in here and make things worse.

The thought wounded him.

“You know I take your work seriously, right?” he asked, quietly. The duffel bag with his spider-suit was heavy in his hand, a physical reminder of his own work. “I would never tell you this isn’t important, what you do. Your words change lives.”

Now she ducked her head, shoving her laptop into her knapsack. Her red hair nearly matched her flushed, feverish face. “I know. I know you support me.”

“Then why wouldn’t you want the Bugle calling me for this kind of thing? I was panicking the whole way here.”

“That. That’s why,” MJ said, wearily.

He stilled. “What?”

She sighed, sounding hoarser than this morning. “You have enough to worry about, Pete. With _that_ —” she gestured towards the duffel bag, towards the spider-suit hidden inside, “—and the job hunt and… and May. You don’t need to be worrying about me too.”

“I always worry about you,” he replied, strained.

She scowled. “Exactly. Stop it.”

Didn’t she understand? He took a step forward, intercepting her as she rounded the desk. He could feel the heat radiating off her from here, see how unsteady she was on her feet. He took her shoulders and crushed her against him, inhaling the scent of her hair, feeling the curve of her body against his.

“Peter—” she whispered.

“I’m always going to worry about you,” he repeated. “Always. I know you can handle yourself, but MJ… you’re all I have left.”

He didn’t vocalize the truth: that he wasn’t okay after May died. That every day he threw himself into the spider work because at least there, he could make a difference. That the only thing keeping him sleeping and eating and _living_ was the knowledge that MJ loved him, would mourn him if he followed May’s footsteps. She was the knot holding his fraying mind together.

She thought he didn’t take care of himself. But she couldn’t realize that he was only functioning right now because of _her_.

She must have sensed his desperation, his fear, because she gripped his arm and carefully extracted herself. Her eyes met his, bright and grounding. “I’m not going anywhere, Pete. Okay? You’re stuck with me.”

He nearly slumped at the words. “Okay,” he replied. If his voice was a little hoarse, neither of them commented on it.  

She tucked herself under his arm, even as a shudder wracked through her. She groaned, leaning heavily against his side. “Damn, I forgot how debilitating fevers are. This is ridiculous.”

“Even more ridiculous than me wearing Spider-Man footie pajamas? Because I still have those.”

She laughed, even though it dissolved into coughing moments later.

“Come on,” he said, shouldering her knapsack so she didn’t have to carry it. He’d hide it when they got back to the apartment… or maybe he’d stash it somewhere outside, web it to a wall near their bedroom, somewhere she’d never physically reach. She could thank him later.

“Let’s get you home.”

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until much later, when she was snuggled against his chest on their couch, the story of TreeMaker’s arrest and subsequent city-wide bomb defusal flashing on the TV (“ _No casualties_ ,” the news anchor said, “ _Thanks to the brave service of New York’s finest, with a little help from our neighborhood Spider-Man.”)_ , that Peter dared to ask.

“MJ?”

“Hmm?” She was still feverish and chilled, swaddled in their thick comforter with a cold compress on her forehead. Her eyes kept drifting shut, but she refused to move to their bedroom for proper sleep. He didn’t argue; as long as she rested, she could stay anywhere she wanted.

But it had been gnawing at him since he first noticed her cheeks tinged pink. He tried to keep his gaze straight ahead, tried not to make accusations. “I just—why didn’t you slow down when you felt this coming on?”

For a long time, he didn’t think she’d reply. Maybe she fell asleep. Or maybe she was too offended to splutter a retort, and instead opted for cold silence until he apologized.

But just as he opened his mouth to do that, she coughed and said, blearily, “I wanted to keep up with you.”

“What?”

“You never stop. And I keep expecting you to get tired, but you don’t.” She buried her face further into the pillow on his lap. She probably wouldn’t be telling him this at all, if it weren’t for her high dosage of fever reducers and extraordinary lack of sleep. It was a wonder she wasn’t delusional right now.

Her voice turned petulant, and she mumbled, “It isn’t fair. You do so much good, and I can’t even go three days without sleep before I get sick.”

Panic gripped him. “Three _days_?” Oh, god. Then this wasn’t a virus at all. This—this was exhaustion, maybe stress, all bundling into a dangerous cocktail that nearly sidelined his favorite person. He gripped her tighter. “MJ, I—I’ve never gone three days without sleep. That’s insane.”

“You have,” she muttered. “I’ve seen it.”

Had he? Maybe during Otto’s decline, or—or after the Ryker’s prison break. Maybe after Aunt May died and he took to the streets, desperate to forget the image of her hand falling from his.

But it didn’t matter if he had or not. The fact of the matter was, he was superhuman, and MJ _wasn’t_. And although they were partners, equals, physical ability was another matter entirely.

Before he could launch into that lecture, MJ rolled onto her back to face him, eyes fever-bright. “It—It isn’t even a matter of your powers, or abilities.” She was slurring some of her words now, though he doubted she noticed. Exhaustion or the medicine? Both? “I’m not smart like you. I can’t build gadgets or gizmos like Felicia can.”

“Felicia’s a criminal,” Peter said, somewhat bitterly.

“She still got to fight beside you.” Tears welled in MJ’s eyes, sending Peter’s heart into a panic. She sniffed and wiped them before they trailed down her temples. “She’s at the drama, and—and I’m sidelined, creeping around mafia warehouses because it’s the closest thing I have to what you do.”

Peter choked. “MJ, that’s—you realize that’s not what I do, right? I mean, it is, but I won’t _die_ if I’m shot.”

“I bet you never told Felicia that,” she mumbled.

He hadn’t, but not for the reasons MJ seemed to think. His indignant tone was impossible to conceal. “I never _cared_ about Felicia, not the way I care about you! You know how many dates we went on? Three. Because that was _all_ I could take. God, MJ, do you know how hard it is to date someone who’s always racing into danger without thinking of consequences?”

“Yes,” MJ replied, almost deadpan. If she weren’t so exhausted, he knew exactly what look she’d be giving him.

He still winced, clenching his eyes shut. “It’s not the same. I’m talking about the people caught in the crossfire. The cops and civilians who almost died because of she was too selfish to plan ahead. As long as she walks away with her prize, it’s a good night.”

MJ went silent, searching his face. But she wouldn’t find anything; he was telling the absolute truth. His voice was raw. “You’re not like that. I worry about you for the same reason I worried about Aunt May. You’re so busy thinking of others, you forget about yourself.”

He bent down now, pressing a hard kiss against MJ’s lips. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter to me if you fight from the streets or from a laptop. I love you because of who you are, not what you can do. That’s the difference.”

MJ smiled against his lips. Hers were dry and cracking, but he kissed her again all the same.

When he pulled back, she was still smiling, dazed now. “Wow. Okay. So—so this was my bad, then.”

“Just, please, take care of yourself next time,” he replied, pulling her closer against his chest. “You’re kind of the fluid to my web shooters.”

“Was that a Spider-Man romanticism?”

“A pretty brilliant one, if I do say so mys—”

MJ rolled her eyes and pushed herself upright, swaying slightly as she steadied herself against his shoulder. “That’s it. I’m going to bed.”

He grinned, pressing another kiss to her temple. “Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Super excited to venture into this fandom!! I've been consuming SO MUCH FANFIC for Spider-Man, thanks to the new video game. Love love love all the hurt/Peter fics, but I can't seem to find any with MJ, where Peter gets to be the caretaker. So I hope you liked this! 
> 
> I kind of loved the idea of Peter favoring MJ because she treats him as a person, not a mask. Whereas Felicia, lovely as she is, always has her eyes on the next priceless item... and Peter kind of wonders if that's all he ever was to her. Not canon, but meh. That's my thought. :P 
> 
> I'll probably be lurking in this fandom for a while, so expect more things in the future! <3


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